


Anything Else to Declare?

by LittleMissO



Series: Anything to Declare [2]
Category: Holby City
Genre: Berena tbc, Blame Jess and Bat for this, F/F, Sian loves to meddle, confusion all around, gay panic abounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissO/pseuds/LittleMissO
Summary: Bernie and Serena bond over an unexpected item in Serena's baggage area....Written as a sequel to Anything to Declare (which, in terms of reading order, ought to come first).
Relationships: Serena Campbell/Bernie Wolfe
Series: Anything to Declare [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1911133
Comments: 48
Kudos: 83
Collections: to be continued... (Berena Summer Sequel Event)





	1. Chapter 1

Fortunately for Serena there isn’t a queue at the taxi rank, so before she’s forced to answer Bernie’s question they’re distracted stowing luggage into a boot and climbing into a taxi. By the time they’ve belted up and given their driver their destination the moment has been lost. Bernie has the grace to let the subject drop.

However, the taxi driver is the quiet type and the silence in the back of the cab is becoming increasingly awkward. Serena decides that she has nothing to lose. After all the truth is a lot tamer than whatever Bernie might be thinking. In for a penny, in for a pound she tells herself. For some reason she wants to keep the conversation with Bernie going, and, it seems, is willing to open herself to further potential embarrassment to achieve that aim.

“It was Sian.”

“Sian?” Bernie asks, confused. 

“Who was responsible for the um “item” in my luggage.”

“Your partner?” Bernie tries, not really any the wiser.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I’m very single.” Serena didn’t know why she’d added that little snippet, except that she felt it important to make it clear that she wasn’t spoken for. “Sian’s my oldest friend, and something of a character.” Serena explains, glancing as Bernie to see how she’s taking this. She’s giving Serena encouraging looks, so she ploughs on. 

“She’s a bit, shall we say, uninhibited. Not really got a lot in the way of boundaries. When I kicked my cheating scumbag of an ex into touch she brought me the HellBone as a way of celebrating my new found freedom. My liberation, as she but it. It’s been gathering dust in my chest of drawers ever since. Sian was visiting whilst I was packing last night. I made the mistake of leaving her alone with my suitcase for five minutes. She must have come across it while she was getting some bits and pieces out of my drawer for me. Packing it must have been her idea of a joke.”

“Oh, I know that type!” Bernie says with a reassuring smile.

“What? You’ve had a friend hide a HellBone in your luggage and let you try and get past Customs not knowing it was in there?” Serena ask, her voice teasing, her eyebrow raised playfully.

“Well, no, not that exactly. But I know the kind of person you mean. I’ve met plenty of those in my time. I’ll tell you what though, I wouldn’t have been as calm as you if someone had done that to me. I certainly wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to dress a Customs Officer down the way you did.”

Not entirely upset at the sudden praise Serena attempts a neutral tone, but doesn’t quite pull it off.

“Well, the odious little man deserved it. And dressings down are somewhat of a speciality of mine. I’ve practised on too many Junior Doctors to count.” She can’t help a hint of self satisfaction entering her voice.

“Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you!” Bernie quips, with comic eye widening for dramatic effect. 

“Well so long as you leave my luggage alone, and don’t pull any immature stunts on my ward I think we’ll be fine.” Was that a bit forward, Serena wonders as soon as the words are out. A bit much for a first meeting? She’s an old pro at charming donors and colleagues when she needs to, but it’s been a while since she’s actually been faced with the prospect of making a new friend. She realises that she might be second guessing herself, but decides to steer the conversation to safer, more neutral, ground. 

“So what brings you to the Conference then?” she asks.

“Ah. Well, a roadside bomb, as it happens.” Bernie says with an apologetic grin, like she knows that Serena was trying to find a safer topic of conversation and has accidentally hit on the opposite.  
Serena is so taken aback by the unexpected reply that the only response she can come up with is

“A bomb?”

“I was an Army Medic out in Afghanistan. We were on our way to an incident and our armoured truck hit an IED on the road. Everyone got thrown clear but I landed rather awkwardly and got quite badly injured. The Army patched me up but I was never going to be fit enough for active duty again. They gave me a choice – a desk job training up new Army Medics or a medical discharge. I took the discharge.”

“That must have been hard.” Serena interjects, knowing that it’s an entirely inadequate response but too blind sided to come up with anything better. Bernie shrugs in reply, knowing that there isn’t really an appropriate response to such a revelation. 

“I thought I might try and make a go of my marriage, but my husband served me with divorce papers whilst I was in my hospital bed.”

“Well he sounds like an absolute delight.” Serena observes, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Welcome to the embittered ex-wives club. I’m a founding member.” Serena can’t help but add a grin and is delighted to see Bernie grin back at her.

“Well I’m not planning on wasting any more of my time thinking about him.” Bernie says with determination. “I have better things to think about.”

“Oh?”

“Well divorces, especially acrimonious ones, don’t come cheap – and being medically discharged doesn’t come with a paycheck. The bills still want paying though. I need to do some networking. To put out some feelers and see what’s available. This Conference seemed the ideal place to start – especially as I had to be out of the rehab unit today and my new place isn’t going to be ready until next week.”

“You’ve come straight from the Army?”

“Umhm.”

“Where are all your things?” Serena asked, her organisational flair coming to the fore. 

“Oh, most of my stuff is in my former marital home. The rest of it is in that suitcase in the boot. Not a whole lot of use for loads or personal possessions in the Army. Better to travel light.”

Serena realises she might have come across as a little judgemental, and hurriedly changes the subject.

“Well, I’m sure it won’t take long before you’re snapped up. After all, who wouldn’t want the woman who performed on of the very few successful atriovcaval shunts on their staff?”

“You know about that?”

“Your reputation precedes you Major Wolfe.” Serena says with a knowing grin.

“You read the article about me in The Lancet?” Bernie asks, sounding somewhat resigned. 

“I did, it just took me a moment to make the connection. I hadn’t been expecting to run into you today. As it happens I’ve read all the articles you’ve written as well as the one about you. I’m quite the fan. You have a very impressive resume, if I might say so.” Bernie is flushing a very gentle pink. She’s clearly embarrassed and trying to hide it – only not very successfully.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read.” Bernie says as the cab pulls up outside the country hotel hosting the conference. Serena’s concentrating on Bernie’s face as the car draws to a halt and stops, The delicate blush on her cheeks is, she thinks, one of the most beautiful things she’s ever seen. She wants to see that flush again, to see Bernie blush like that again. She just can’t put her finger on why. She knows she wants to get to know this woman better though. 

There isn’t any time for Serena to reply to Bernie’s comment, or to say anything else, because the driver has opened up the boot and started to remove their bags. The next few minutes are taken up with exiting the cab, reclaiming the correct bag and a brief tussle over who is going to pay the driver. (which Serena wins when she tells Bernie the conference organisers are covering her travel expenses). 

They’ve started walking across the car park, luggage trundling behind them, before Serena gets up the courage to continue their discussion.

“You’ll have to tell me which bits to believe and which to take with a pinch of salt over a drink.” Serena’s determined not to let this opportunity pass, even if it might mean taking a risk. Friendly women her professional equal who don’t want to compete with her are as rare as hen’s teeth. She isn’t going to let this one slip away. She can see inside the hotel foyer and the two large signs on the desk directing delegates one way to register and speakers the other. If she doesn’t do this now she might not get a second chance. She takes a deep breath and ploughs on rather rapidly. “I’ve got a briefing in about fifteen minute, but I should be done by six. Dinner isn’t until seven thirty. If you don’t have a better offer I wonder if I could tempt you to a pre dinner drink in the bar.” She finishes in something of a rush and tries not to look directly at Bernie. She’s feeling more anxious than she ought to be. 

“Consider me tempted.” Bernie says and Serena’s eyes are drawn to the source of the beautiful sound of her voice, There’s a broad smile on Bernie’s face as she adds “I’ll see you later then.” Pausing just long enough to add a wink and thoroughly addle Serena’s senses, she heads off, lime green suitcase in tow, to delegate check in. 

Serena stands, rooted to the spot, wondering what has just happened and what she might have let herself in for. It’s not as if she regularly invites women she’s just met for drinks and she’d not quite sure what possessed her to do it this time. She’s brought back to reality with a jolt when a delegate walks past her and clips her ankle painfully with the corner of their suitcase. Briskly she reassembles the best facade of professionalism she can muster and goes to check in.

The briefing session had been tedious – and that was being generous. Serena had addressed enough “gatherings of esteemed colleagues” not to need any of the very basis pointers on offer. The most useful part of the session had been confirming with the tech crew that the graphics she’d provided to illustrate her talk wouldn’t be any problem to use. It was a good thing that nothing very significant had been covered in the session because Serena couldn’t honestly say that she’d been giving it her full attention, Her thoughts had kept wondering – mainly in the direction of a blonde messy haired woman with a voice of pure honey and a wicked smile. She must be more tired than she realised, Serena thought, as she made her way back to her room after the briefing had ended. It wasn’t like her to be so distracted. Maybe it wasn’t tiredness. Maybe she just needed a drink, seeing as her thoughts kept turning to the woman she’d arranged to meet in the bar. 

She hadn’t had much time before the briefing to do more than throw her suitcase on the stand and pull out her outfits for this evening and tomorrow to hang them up to allow the creases of travel to drop out. Realising she hadn’t set a specific time to meet Bernie she decides to unpack the rest of her things and make herself comfortable now. It’s preferable to having to do it later when she finally makes it back to her room after dinner and all the glad handing she’ll have to do. It also means she can relax for the rest of the evening – well as much as you can as a guest speaker. Serena is a seasoned traveller and used to packing light and efficiently, so the whole process of unpacking takes only a few minutes. She’s left with ample time to freshen up her make up and change her outfit. Not that there was anything wrong with what she was wearing. She looked smart and efficient as always, but she felt that she ought to make the extra effort as guest speaker - up her game as it were. The fact that she’d packed her smartly tailored trousers that elongated her legs, and the wrap over top that hugged her waist and gave her curves more than a hint of hourglass was in no way related to the woman she was meeting in the bar. How could it be? She’d had no idea when she’d packed her clothes the previous night that they’d meet. No idea when she’d picked her outfits the night before that she’d be issuing invitations for pre-dinner drinks. The touch up of her eyeshadow, the fresh lipstick and the extra layer of mascara, well that was purely so she didn’t look underdressed at dinner. She was a speaker after all. It wouldn’t do to let the side down by not looking the part. The extra spray of the musky and very expensive perfume she’d treated herself to and not yet had an opportunity to wear – well that couldn’t be explained away as for anything else but Bernie’s benefit. No one else was going to get close enough to Serena to fully enjoy the fragrance. Serena let the mist of perfume settle over her and pushed any further thoughts about perfume out of her mind. It was, after all, just perfume. Reading any more into it than a desire to smell nice was just ridiculous. At least that’s what Serena told herself as she grabbed her bag, headed out of the room and walked down the corridor to the lift.

The door to the bar area is right in front of her as she steps out of the lift, wedged open to show off the cosy, old fashioned traditional country pub décor inside. Taking a deep breath (absolutely not to steady any nerves she definitely doesn’t have) she strides purposefully towards the open door. She sweeps the room looking for Bernie and it doesn’t take long before she spots her standing by an ornate map of the local area hanging on the wall opposite the bar counter. She has her back to Serena and is engrossed in map. If she’s honest Serena is glad of it, because it gives her a moment to take in the sight in front of her. When they’d met at the airport Bernie had been wearing a large, warm, very pink coat. She’d kept it on for the cab journey to the hotel and she’d vanished into the crowd of delegates still wearing it. Serena had realised that beneath the coat Bernie was tall, lean and trim. She’d been in the Army. Logically she was going to be fit, even after her injury. Serena had known this, but she hadn’t known just what good shape Bernie was in. Bernie wasn’t wearing her coat in the bar, it being more than warm enough, so Serena was seeing her for the first time without one. The woman had legs, Serena noted. Long, slender shapely legs that went on for ever. Legs that were being shown off to full advantage in the tightest pair of back skinny jeans that Serena had ever seen. The fitted white shirt she was wearing over them tucked round just under her backside, emphasising it’s soft curves. For a moment Serena felt underdressed as she compared herself to the woman in font of her. She absolutely wasn’t underdressed. She looked good, she knew she did. Bernie however looked like a masterpiece, a study in shape and form. Maybe, Serena thought, I just wish I could make something so simple look so good. 

With a jolt Serena realised that she must have been standing staring at Bernie for several minutes. She was just so distracted today, she realised. What was wrong with her? She asked herself as she pulled herself together and made her way towards Bernie. She stops a pace or two away from her and says

“Hello!” It comes out much lower on her register than she’d intended. In fact it’s almost husky. What on earth has got into me? Serena berates herself as Bernie turns to face her. 

“Hello.” Bernie replies with a smile. 

“Interesting map?” Serena offers by way of a conversation starter.

“Oh, it’s an Army thing. I like to know where I am and what’s around me. See here,”Bernie points at an area on the map that shows heavy forest, “perfect spot for an ambush.”

“Are we in danger of being ambushed?” Serena asks

“Probably not.” Bernie admits, almost regretfully. “Unless you count boring middle aged men with a God complex and questionable views trying their luck as an ambush?”

“Good point. Any Army tricks you can share to defend against them?”

“Well I know thirteen ways to kill a man with my bare hands.”

“I best not let you out of my sight then.” Serena says, and can’t believe the words that have just come out of her mouth. Fortunately Bernie doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.

“Well, right now I’m heading to the bar to order a drink. I’d be delighted if you’d join me.”

“Lead the way Major.” Serena says with a smile as they both take the few steps to the counter made of dark wood that ran the whole length of the hotel’s bar area. The room itself is large and spacious but Bernie had been waiting in a somewhat sectioned off area which was nigh on deserted. The rest of the bar space was more open and significantly more busy. It looked like it was full of delegates getting a head start on the drinking and networking before the conference officially started with dinner. Serena didn’t feel obliged to join in. Guest speaker she might be, but he wasn’t going to join the hoards of medics and start glad handing a moment sooner than she had to. Besides. Bernie was a much better offer.

“So you survived the briefing?” Bernie asked.

“Barely, Death from boredom was a distinct possibility.”

“That bad?” Bernie enquired as she leant on the bar to wait for the Barman to work his way through the crowd and to their end of the bar. 

“Talk about teaching your Grandmother to suck eggs.”

“They you most certainly need a drink. What’s your poison?”

“Shiraz.” Serena replies without any need for conscious thought. 

“I’m assuming that a large glass is required?

“The largest they have.” Serena confirms. Bernie raises an eyebrow, prompting Serena to add “I’ve never really seen the point of a small glass to be honest.”

“We could always order by the bottle.” Bernie suggests

“Tempting though that is I should at lest feign restraint. My speech tomorrow won’t be improved by me being hungover. Beside, I don’t just let anybody get me drunk.” Where the hell had that come from Serena wondered the moment the words had left her mouth. What would Bernie think? 

If Bernie thought anything she didn’t let on because, to Serena’s relief, the Barman made his way to their end of the bar just at that moment. Serena hoped that Bernie had been distracted enough by his arrival not to have been paying attention to what Serena had just said.

“A very large glass of shiraz and a regular glass of chardonnay please.” Serena couldn’t deny that she was disappointed. Drinking white wine was a cardinal sin in her book, but it seemed it was the only flaw the woman had displayed. Somehow Serena found herself overlooking it in favour of getting to know Bernie better. 

The barman poured the drinks with efficiency and as Bernie waved away her attempts to pay Serena perched herself on the closest bar stool whilst the transaction went through. She was taking a delightful first sip of the rich red liquid when Bernie swung her leg over her bar stool and, well there was no other word for it, straddled it. The action so distracted Serena that is was a few moments before she remembered to swallow the wine in her mouth, and several more before she remembered to remove the glass from her lips. That was some move, Serena thought appreciatively. Bernie had seemed, what exactly? Powerful? Confident? In control? Fluid and graceful? Yes, all those things but also something else. Something she couldn’t put her finger on… She didn’t have much time to ponder it because Bernie has started speaking.

“So, health economics and efficiency. I didn’t have you down as a pen pusher.”

“I’m not really,” Serena answers, relieved to move onto a more neutral conversation topic, or at least something she can answer without having to think too deeply. Somehow she’s finding the woman on the bar stool next to her is playing havoc with her ability to focus on anything but her.  
“I have got an MBA from Harvard and I did a significant spell as Deputy CEO at Holby. I suppose that makes me something of a go to for these events. I seem to get asked enough. Truth be told I’m also the Lead Consultant of AAU and I’m much happier doing that than tackling the Deputy CEO’s paperwork mountain. I much prefer dealing with patients and surgery. My speciality is vascular. Still it’s probably not all that exciting compared to what you must have got up to out in the field.”

“It had it’s moments, and challenges.” Bernie starts modestly, The evident interest and enthusiasm in Serena’s eyes spurs her on to add further detail. “There was one memorable occasion when I I had to perform a surgical procedure with a bottle of the local home brew and a bayonet.”

“That must have been quite the sight. How did you manage that?”

“It wasn’t so bad, you see…..”

For the next hour the conversation flows freely and the wine in their glasses steadily reduces. They exchange stories of patients: the ones they lost, the ones they won, the ones that made them laugh even though they shouldn’t and the ones who had tested their skills and knowledge. Bernie shared her exploits in the Army, Serena shared her exploits in the Board Room. They’d even managed to identify several colleagues they were both acquainted with and had either engaged in well deserved character assassinations, or recounted tales of clinical and personal excellence. 

Whilst their glasses have been emptying the bar has been filling with more and more delegates indulging in a pre dinner libation. Serena was jostled ever so slightly by a delegate carrying a round of drinks past her to his table. It was enough though to break her concentration and to cause her to lose the thread of what Bernie had been saying. She glances up at the ornate clock on the wall. To her surprise it’s less than ten minutes until their dinner Is due to be served. Apologetically she points out the time to Bernie.

“We can continue this conversation over dinner if you like?” Bernie suggests.

“I’d like to – very much. Unfortunately though, for me anyway, all the speakers are sitting together on some kind of top table. Believe me, having met the other speakers I’d much rather be sat next to you!”

“That bad?” Bernie says jokingly, “Maybe I should buy you another one of those to get you through it?” She adds, gesturing at the virtually empty glass in front of Serena.

“Oh, no need to worry about that. I’ve made sure there will be a very large glass with my name on at dinner.”

“Sounds like you’ve taken appropriate precautions to weather the storm.”

“I certainly hope so!” Serena thinks for a minute, and then adds “Look, I’m supposed to mingle after dinner. You know the kind of thing – be available, make people feel important by talking to them. I don’t suppose it will take me all evening. If you’d like to continue our chat later tonight, and you can bare to wait for me to be done, then I’d be more than willing.” She can’t quite understand why, as she says this, she has a sudden flurry of butterflies in her stomach.

“I may well take you up on that Miss Campbell.” Bernie says non committally.

“Then I’ll look for you later.” Serena promises as she hops of her stool and grabs her bag. “But I really should be heading for the dining room,” adding a pained grimace so Bernie is left in no doubt that she would rather not have to leave. With a sudden spurt of energy she grabs her glass and drains the last of the wine in it. “I honestly ought to...” she gesticulates wildly in the direction of the dining room with the now empty glass. Realising what she’s doing she quickly replaces the glass on the counter. “I’m just going to...” she mutters as she backs away from Bernie, who seems to be doing her best not to laugh. 

Serena exits the bar in a flustered hurry. What on earth has got into me? she asks herself wondering what had just happened. She was going to have to pull herself together quick smart, she realised, if she was going to survive this conference. Taking a deep breath and setting her shoulders back she walks confidently into dinner.

An hour and a half later Serena walks back into the bar area. The dinner had been every bit as bad as she’d feared it would be. The food had been little more than lukewarm. She’d expected as much. There really was no way to serve so many dishes at the same time all at a suitable temperature for eating. Serena was certainly no chef, but she presumed that this was the case. She’d certainly never seen in managed before. Despite it’s disappointing temperature the food itself was fine. Nothing worth writing home about, certainly, but edible and filling enough to get her through the rest of the evening. What Serena had really taken exception to was the way they were pretending the food had a refinement to it that it just didn’t. As far as she was concerned mashed potato’s were mash potato’s and not pommes puree, no matter how smooth they were. What was wrong with good honest food, she thought? She much preferred to be given hearty mash done well than be presented with essentially the same dish and be told it was pommes puree because it sounded better. Just like with people, those who put on airs and graces, and pretended that they were something they weren’t were liable to disappoint. It was certainly the case with her dinner companions.

She couldn’t say that the disappointing company had been unexpected. She was too experienced at these kind of events to expect decent or stimulating company. It seemed to be the case that the more in demand a man was (and it was almost always the men) the more boring and patronising they became - and the more entitled. It was only through gritted teeth and with a considerable amount of smiling and nodding that she had got through the meal without committing murder. That and the large glass of Shiraz that had, thankfully, been waiting for her in her allocated seat – and had been consumed all too fast. She’d been sorely tempted to order a second glass, but the thought of the speech she had to give tomorrow stopped her. It wasn’t that a third glass of wine was going to cause her any great problems in the morning, but three was her limit the night before a speech and she would really rather share that third glass with Bernie. She resigned herself to the fact that she’d have to suffer the rest of the meal less anaesthetised than she’d prefer to. As it turned out it was a rather ironic thought, because the man sitting to her left was, in fact, an anaesthetist. 

As soon as Serena had politely introduced her self and asked him about himself he’d taken it as a license to unleash obviously years of pent up frustration about the way anaesthetists were viewed According to him (as he explained at great length) they were viewed a second class citizens in the medical world – barely seen as doctors at all. And yet, he contended, it was the anaesthetist who had to jump in and save the day, and the patient, when something went wrong or the surgeon made a mistake. It was they who were responsible for keeping the patient alive whilst the surgeon sliced into them.

What was it about anaesthetists, Serena though, that gave them such God complexes? She wasn’t diminishing their vital role in theatre -she’d certainly had her skin saved by the skills of a competent anaesthetist before now – and more than one of her patients was alive due to their actions and not her skills. Even with that in mind, it still seemed their opinion of themselves was much higher than it ought to be. And then it struck her with a sudden jolt. He reminded her of Edward. They certainly had the same chip on their shoulder, the same sense of entitlement and the same arrogance. Banishing the unwelcome comparison (she liked to think of Edward as little as possible) she pondered the man’s theatre technique as he droned on an on. Did he, she wondered, actually use drugs to put his patients to sleep, or did he just use the sound of his own voice to bore them to sleep? She resigned herself to enduring his rant for the rest of the meal. It wasn’t as if she was required to comment or interact. It was most certainly a monologue and was clearly assembled of a series of well rehearsed grievances. She was barely required to listen. As she feigned polite interest her eyes swept the room looking for a mop of messy blonde hair. The room, however, was large and, being old like the rest of the building, it wasn’t designed for an unobstructed view. There were large number of pillars throughout the room which, annoyingly, served to restrict Serena’s view. She thought she might have seem Bernie behind a pillar on the left hand side of the room, but she couldn’t be sure. She was rather surprised to find that not being able to locate Bernie in the body of the hall was making her feel, somehow, slightly abandoned. It was rather a strange sensation. Serena cultivated her professional, strong, capable woman side over and above any form of what she saw as weakness, and so it was a surprise that she felt the absence of Bernie so strongly. She tried not to rely on others as she’d had too much experience of them being unreliable. She wasn’t sure what it was about the woman that had all these strange and unaccustomed emotions running amok inside her. She did her best to put those kind of thoughts out of her mind and focus on getting through the meal.

She’d had mixed feelings about the dinner finally coming to an end. On the one hand it had been delightful to escape the anaesthetist – and almost more so to escape the man who had been sat on her right. When the anaesthetist had finally paused for breath he’d had no hesitation in jumping into the gap. He had turned out to be a neurosurgeon and displayed his terrible sense of judgement by asking Serena if she knew of Guy Self. Once she’d admitted, cagily, that, yes, she had crossed paths with him once or twice, he’d taken it as an opportunity to sing Guy’s praises at length. Much to Serena’s displeasure.

On the other hand, of course, now that dinner was over she was expected to mingle and hence she would be fair game for anyone who wanted to waylay her; the bores that wanted to hear the sound of their own voices, the opportunists who were looking for a hand up the career ladder and thought that they could charm or impress her into helping them. And those who annoyed her most of all - those who thought they were Gods gift to women and as such felt entitled to manhandle her and try their luck in any way they could think of. She may be a guest speaker, but the last time she checked that didn’t make her a geisha. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle any of these all too common sub-species of delegates, she’d certainly met enough of them in her time and had ample opportunity to practice. It was just that having to deal with them was so old, so exhausting, and so downright boring. 

The bar area is heaving. Serena does a sweep as far as she can see in front of her, hoping to catch sight of Bernie, but the woman is nowhere to be seen. Disappointed despite herself she decides that the only thing that is going to make the rest of this evening palatable is that third glass of wine. She’d much rather drink it with Bernie, but her current need was too great. She manages to make her way to the bar relatively easily. The throngs of mainly male delegates still seemed to think it was chivalrous to step aside when a woman was trying to get past. There were, it seemed, some benefits to misogyny, Serena told herself with a wry grin. 

Fortunately the Hotel had the foresight to draft in extra staff for the evening. Four staff were quickly and efficiently dispatching drinks and taking money up and down the length of the bar. She leans forward over the counter and attracts the attention of the closest member of staff. A glass of shiraz is soon being poured for her. Whilst she waits for the young woman to bring her drink over she glances down the bar in idle curiosity and sees, at the far end, a familiar face looking back at her. Serena’s face breaks into a grin with absolutely no conscious instruction from her brain. Bernie winks at her and raises her full glass in a kind of mock salute as if she’s sending a soldier off into battle. In the midst of such a large crowd it’s a strangely intimate moment, and somehow Serena feels her spirit is lighter for it. 

Having taken her money before she poured the drink the bar tender returns with Serena’s full glass and leaves it in front of her. Serena picks up the glass and goes to raise it to salute Bernie in return – but in the second she looked away Bernie had slipped back into the crowd. Serena feel more disappointed than she should be at this, but doesn’t allow herself time to ponder it any further – after all she is a professional. And she’s supposed to be working, supposed to be circulating. Of course, she thinks as she takes a first sip of the better than expected wine, there is nothing to stop her from circulating in the direction she last saw Bernie….


	2. Chapter 2

It’s gone eleven before the evening starts to wind down, by which time the charming smile that’s been plastered to Serena’s face all night has become more like a rictus. Her cheek muscles are aching with the effort of maintaining it. She’s spoken to so many people that their faces and stories have blended into an amorphous mass. That’s not entirely true though, she realises. There were one or two who stuck out in her memory: the young Registrar with obvious mummy issues who’d taken a shine to her; the Orthopaedic surgeon who’d tried to mansplain vascular surgery to her; the Consultant from the Hadlington Clinic who’d thought the way to impress her was to detail, at length, the amount of money he could earn for the simplest and most straight forward of procedures (suffice to say that this approach enticed Serena neither into the private sector or into his bed – both of which he’d clearly been hoping for). Then there was the smarmy man who’d obviously been angling for a position at Holby. He’d repulsed her almost as much as the retired CEO who had started every sentence with ”in my day” and insisted on referring to her as ‘my dear’. What she didn’t remember seeing amongst the crowd of delegates though was a slender Major with messy blonde hair and a winning smile – much to her disappointment.

The delegates, she realises, seem to have divided into two separate groups. The first, and by far the largest group, had clearly decided to make their way to their rooms as a reasonable hour. Obviously they were of the view that a good nights sleep was the best way to get the benefits of the next days sessions and to avoid the after effects of too good a night before. Then there were the rest of them - those who seemed determined to drink until they were thrown out. They seemed to be showing no signs of flagging. Serena decides that she’s done more than her bit and that it’s time to call it a night. She shucks off the fixed smile on her face with the same kind of relief that she’d kick off a pair of too tight, pointed, stiletto heels that she’d been standing in for hours. Serena can glad hand with the best of them, and she can turn on the charm as thick as butter – but keeping it up for hours on end? Well that gets exhausting.

She looks round the room again, a final confirmation that she doesn’t need to stay any longer. The cosy corner that she and Bernie had tucked themselves into earlier was deserted. The main bar area had around a dozen hard core drinkers, split into three groups, each congregated around their own table. Serena was confident that none of them would welcome her presence at that point – well not as a professional colleague anyway. It seemed that even the bar staff were calling it a night as two of them seemed to have left completely. One of those remaining was gathering glasses and wiping down table tops, leaving the last staff member to restock with clean glasses and fresh bottles of beer. None of the other speakers, or conference staff, are still around. She’s free to finish off her Shiraz and head to bed. So, she wonders, why isn’t she? What’s she waiting for? She’s certainly not waiting in the vain hope that Bernie will turn up after all. She’s not some silly teenager who can’t survive without her friend at their side, can’t be apart from them for even a few minutes. It wasn’t even as if it had been a firm arrangement arrangement, it was more a loose suggestion. It hadn’t worked out, It was no big deal. Except. Except Serena feels, feels what? Let down? Disappointed? Cheated of the chance to spend time with the woman who was hands down the most interesting person she’d met at the conference so far? What was making her so hesitant to leave? 

Telling herself she’s being ridiculous she drains her glass to the lees and deposits the now empty vessel on the counter. She walks the length of the room to exit from the door on the far side of the bar. There’s no elevator conveniently waiting outside this set of doors to to whisk her up to her first floor bedroom. There is, however, a grand staircase on the far side of the lobby the door opens onto. Serena had spotted it whilst she had been checking in and she couldn’t resist going up the stairs like an aristocratic lady in a historical novel retiring for the night. As she walks through the bar doorway into the lobby she rummages in her bag for her room keys. She’s focused on finding them before she gets up to the bedroom. She’s been caught out trying to find lost keys at the bottom of her bag in the dingy light of a hotel corridor before. If she’s going to have to search her bag she wants to do it where there’s plenty of light. She’s so engrossed in her rummaging as she leaves the bar that she barely takes in the warm log fire in the corner of the lobby. She almost doesn’t see the tall, elegant chairs clustered in groups and pairs, as she walks past them close enough to almost brush them – that is until a voice comes from one of them.

“I thought you might be in need of this.” the voice says. Serena stops just in time to see a hand extend from the side of the nearest chair clutching a cut crystal glass. The flames from the fire dance off the burnt amber liquid inside. The chair the arm is coming from is one of a pair, directly in front of Serena. Their backs would have been directly in front of Serena if they hadn’t been set at a slight angle so their occupants would be able to see each other. Serena would have been able to see who was in the chair holding the whisky if the back hadn’t been obscuring her view. But the voice, that voice, warm and sweet - that voice Serena recognises at once. That voice belongs to Bernie. Bernie had waited for her. A surge of excitement starts to swell in Serena as she registers that she’s going to get to talk to Bernie after all, to have her to herself. The excitement threatens to explode as Bernie’s face appears from around the back of the chair sporting a large grin. Serena knows she’s pleased to see Bernie, is delighted to get to spend some more time with the woman – but she feels like an overexcited puppy. Should she really be feeling this jittery? The last time she felt excitement like this was just before her first date with Robbie – and look how badly that had ended. Besides, this was hardly the same thing. She really was going to have to make more of an effort to widen her social circle if this was the effect the possibility of having made a friend was having on her.

“Take a seat. I promise to try not to bore you, or to pressure you for a job.” Bernie cajoles. Keys forgotten. Serena steps round the chair and takes a seat.

“That would make a pleasant change.” Serena acknowledges cynically as she settles herself down into the comfortable chair. “How did you know that was pretty much the entirety of my evening?” 

“I’ve been to one or two of these events before. Even been a speaker. I know the form.” Bernie hands Serena the glass. “How many offers of company for the night did you get?” 

“Well now, that depends on if you’re counting explicit and implicit offers. Actually, no it doesn’t. Too many. Far too many.”

“That’s as I suspected.” Bernie notes with a strange tone that Serena can’t quite pin down. She’s a little distracted by the drink in her hand. A subtle sniff has confirmed her assumption that it is indeed whisky. It’s not really her drink. She’s a Shiraz girl all the way. It’s not that she hasn’t drunk whisky before – she has on more than one occasion – It’s just that she never really got the point of it. It’s was just strong, rough and kicked like a mule as far as she was concerned. 

“It’s a single malt made in Wales called Penderyn.” Bernie tells her as she catches her looking at her glass. “It’s made with Welsh spring water and it’s exceptionally smooth. It’s only got hints of peat so it’s really easy to drink.” Bernie adds encouragingly. 

“Ah. Well, you, see I’m not normally a whisky drinker.”

“Well it’s not a normal kind of day, is it? I’d guess that strong is what you need after an evening like the one you’ve just had.”

“Possibly.” Serena concedes “but I prefer something with a bit less fire, a bit more mellow. I find whisky, shall we say, a little harsh.”

“Well, that really depends on the whisky you’ve been drinking.” Bernie explains “What have you tried?”

“Famous Grouse. It was what my Ex used to drink so it was always around the house.”

“Oh well, that explains it!” Bernie says almost triumphantly, “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with Famous Grouse if that’s what you’re looking for, but it’s a blended whisky. It’s one of the more refined blends, to be sure, but all the same a blend. If you’re looking for something with more subtle flavours, more mellow, and easier to drink, then your best bet is a single malt. I suppose it’s a bit like Shiraz. The quality varies. A supermarket own blend, sure it’s Shiraz but it hasn’t got the refined palate, of say, a Barossa or a Hartenberg.”

“Bit of an expert are we?”Serena asks somewhat bemused at her companions unexpected area of expertise.

“I picked up some of the basics in the Officers’ Mess. I wasn’t going to give the men the satisfaction of thinking I didn’t know what I was drinking.” Bernie says with a rueful grin. “But if you’ve never tried a single malt you really ought to.”

“And this is one of the better single malts I take it?” Serena asks, examining the liquid in her glass.

“One of the better ones in my opinion, yes.” 

Serena is hesitant. If she was going to have another drink and blow her three drinks before a presentation rule she’d much rather have a Shiraz, but Bernie has brought this drink for her, and she feels it would be rude not to at least try it. It had been a strange day all round, maybe trying something new wasn’t such a bad idea? Glancing at the woman sat opposite her she could see the encouraging look she was giving her. Her reservations melted away. Why shouldn’t she try it? What was the worst that could happen, she asked herself? Mind made up she lifted the glass, took a decent sized sip and swallowed it straight down. Within a few seconds Serena’s face is going a rather unflattering shade of red and she is helplessly, and unsuccessfully, trying to stop herself coughing violently. Bernie, looking somewhat aghast, reaches over and rubs the top of Serena’s shoulders until the coughing subsides and the colour in her cheeks dies down. When she’s finally satisfied that Serena is OK, Bernie says

“Is that how you’ve been drinking whisky, just knocking it straight back?” 

“Well, yes. How else do you drink it?” Serena asks, slightly embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

“Oh, sure, you can drink it like that. I’ve downed whisky like it was a shot before now. You’re never going to fully appreciate it if you do though. You need to drink it if you want to savour it. 

“Savour it?”

“A good whisky deserves to be treated with respect. It deserves to be fully appreciated. It’s not just about the taste.”

“No?” Serena asks, bemused but interested. To be honest she could listen to this woman’s voice all day, even if she were just reading out that days football results. It didn’t really matter what she was saying as long as it was in that voice.

“The aroma is important too. And the oxygenation. Look.” Bernie picks up her glass from the small table in front of the chairs and holds it aloft. “You need to swirl the drink. Not too much, just gently. Let some oxygen in and let that flavour build.” Serena watches transfixed as Bernie starts gently rotating the glass in her hand. Her long slender fingers are curled around the heavy bottom of the crystal and the light from the fire place is reflecting off the warm amber liquid makes her fingers look like they are glowing. Bernie brings the glass towards her and takes a gentle but deep sniff, her eyes flickering closed for a second as she basks in the aroma. 

“You try.” she tells Serena once she’s inhaled her fill. Serena copies Bernie’s action. When she brings the glass towards her and takes a gentle and hesitant sniff she realises that, whilst the smell is strong, it’s complex, has multiple layers and is actually rather pleasant.

“Well?” Bernie asks keenly.

“It’s quite nice actually.” Serena admits. “It smells a bit sweet and not at all earthy.”

“It’s not a very peaty malt, which is why it doesn’t smell earthy. It’s got quite a hint of honey though.”

“So, now I’ve savoured the bouquet, how do I do justice to it when I actually drink it ?” 

“Well, firstly you don’t need much at once. A small sip is absolutely all you need. To get the full flavour you need to breath while you’re swallowing.”

“What do you mean?” Serena asks, genuinely not follow what Bernie is suggesting.

“You can do one of two things really. Basically you can either hold your whisky on your tongue for a moment, breath in slightly then swallow – or you can swirl the whisky round your whole mouth, breath in and then swallow. The aim is to mix the whisky with some oxygen to enhance the flavour. Like this...” Serena watches as Bernie raises the glass to her lips and takes a very measured sip. Her lips close, and for a second nothing happens. Serena realises that Bernie must be letting the whisky sit on her tongue. Then she doesn’t think anything else because Bernie’s lips part just a slither. Just wide enough to allow Bernie to inhale. The traces of whisky clinging to Bernie’s lips make them shimmer and glisten. They look almost as is she’s just licked them. Serena thinks for a moment that nothing is going to make her look away from the sight of those lips. Then Bernie swallows, and like a magpie spotting something shiny, her attention is drawn to the ripple that runs down Bernie’s long, graceful throat. 

Serena doesn’t know why she’s so transfixed, but she is. She’d love an elegant, slender neck like that. She must be jealous, she thinks, as she continues to stare at the now still throat. Bernie’s obviously lost in savouring flavour of the single malt because silence hangs between them for longer than would be considered entirely comfortable. Serena barely notices, but her focus is eventually shattered by Bernie saying

“Your turn.” She feels for a second like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t, as if she shouldn’t have been looking at Bernie at all. She knows that’s rubbish. She was supposed to be looking at Bernie, Bernie had asked her to. She was demonstrating. That was the whole point of the exercise. Somewhere, lurking at the back of her mind a voice seemed to be saying ‘you weren’t supposed to be looking at her like that’, but Serena didn’t want to pay attention to that voice. Didn’t want to start asking herself any questions about what was going on here. She just wanted to enjoy spending time with Bernie.

Partly because she knew that Bernie was waiting for her to do it, and partly to drown out the questioning voice, she raises her glass. Nodding a brief acknowledgement at Bernie she puts the glass to her lips. The small sip she takes barely registers in her mouth at first. There was no burn, no rush of heat. It sat on her tongue as if it were a well mannered guest, and not a gatecrasher attempting to force their way through. This wasn’t anywhere near as bad as she’d imagined it might be. She thought she could just taste the slight sweetness she’d smelt earlier. It was slightly like honey, she decides, delicate and floral. Emboldened, Serena allows her lips to part slightly and inhales softly. As the air is drawn over her tongue the flavours started to change. More flavours seemed to be added, one after another. Serena was sure that there had been a hint of something citrusy, and a distinct, yet very subtle, earthy tang. The longer she held the liquid in her mouth the deeper the flavours got and the warmer the liquid started to feel

“Swallow.” Bernie says and, obediently, Serena swallows. Flavours seem to explode in her mouth as the whisky passes by and slides down her throat. She can feel a warmth at the back of her throat, but it’s not the burn she’d expected. In fact, there’s no burn at all – although when the whisky hits her stomach she feels a gentle, comfortable, heat come from with it. The heat starts to radiate outwards like a glow and Serena is more than happy to sit basking in the pleasant feeling. Bernie, however, has other ideas.

“And?” she asks eagerly, clearly wanting to know what Serena made of her first single malt.

“It’s certainly an improvement on Famous Grouse.” Serena offers, but her comment is met with a raised eyebrow from Bernie.

“Ok.” Serena admits with a smile. “That was much better than I thought it would be.” Bernie’s face is a cross between delight and ‘I told you so’.

“What about the after taste?” Bernie continues her questioning. Serena pauses and considers for a second.

“Is that… Is that wine I can taste?” she asks confused.

“You have a good palate.” Bernie declares. “The whisky was matured in old wine barrels. To be exact, Maderia. So yes, you might be getting a hint of wine. Have I managed to convert you then?” Bernie’s eyes twinkle as she chances her arm. Serena laughs gently.

“It’ll take more than that to make me abandon my Shiraz, but you’ve certainly opened my eyes to some new possibilities. I’m certainly going to enjoy drinking this with you, now you’ve shown me how to appreciate it. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“I’m so glad you waited for me. It was quite the jungle out there, and the drink was very welcome. You’re the very model of a gallant officer rescuing a damsel in distress.” Bernie offers a mock salute in reply, accompanied by a very non regulation wink.

“I’ll drink to that.” Bernie adds as she raises her glass. The smile Bernie shoots Serena warms her heart – at least that’s what Serena think it does. Her heart is certainly a little more fluttery. It couldn’t be anything other than just the pleasant happy, feeling of being smiled at by a friend, could it? The smile Bernie is bestowing on her, it must be said, seems genuine. It’s also engaging. Very engaging. Serena can’t help but feel herself getting drawn in. They both settle back into their chairs, making themselves comfy and creating their own little bubble just the two of them. The angle the chairs are set at gives them an illusion of privacy in the midst of the overlarge lobby. Both women are relaxed and mellow – partly as the result of the whisky but more a result of the easiness with each other that they had slipped into so readily. The conversation between them ebbs and flows comfortably. Serena kicks off the tight kitten heels she’s been wearing all evening and lets out a little moan of pleasure at the sense of relief her poor exhausted feet feel. Bernie falters in what she’s saying for a fraction of a moment, her eyes suddenly wide. It’s a tiny pause, almost unnoticeable, and Bernie smoothly carries on as if nothing had happened, but Serena had noticed it. She doesn’t know what it means – or even if it means anything, but she notices it. She files the image of Bernie, pupils blown wide, away in her memory banks because, well she doesn’t know why she does it, but she does it all the same.

It’s not long at all before they’re sharing anecdotes of parenting fails and parenting successes as they soon realise that, in addition to Bernie’s older son Cameron, Serena and Bernie have daughters of roughly the same age.

“Daughters can be tricky.” Serena notes and Bernie can’t help but agree. Talk of tricky daughters soon leads to talk of difficult mothers. They discover they both had demanding mothers, making navigating their relationships with them something of a tight rope walk. It gave them the opportunity to commiserate with each other over how hard it was to balance an ageing mothers sense of pride and independence with reality of the help they needed as that age caught up with them. Serena mused aloud how remarkable it was that they seemed to have so much in common. Before they could start to explore what else they might add to that list the peace of their cosy little bubble is broken by the sound of the grandfather clock in the corner chiming the hour like an unwelcome guest.

“Is it really midnight already?” Serena asks incredulously, wondering where the time has gone, as she sits bolt upright in her seat and slips her too tight shoes back onto her protesting feet. How on earth had it got so late? 

“Are you going to turn into a pumpkin on me” Bernie asks, bemused by the sudden flurry of activity from the chair opposite her.

“Not exactly, no.” Serena says as she grabs her handbag and stands up “But I do have a speech to give and a workshop to lead tomorrow, It’ll be better all round if I get some sleep first.” she explains as she puts her long since empty glass on the table in front of them.

“In that case, allow me to escort you to your room. Better make sure that that you get to bed. I don’t want to be responsible for any delegates being traumatised tomorrow.” Bernie offers.

“Cheeky!” Serena retorts with a touch of mock indignation in her voice, but she makes no attempt to stop Bernie when she polishes off the last drops of whisky in her glass, places it neatly next to Serena’s on the table and gets to her feet. When Bernie turns to face her and proffers her arm it’s the most natural thing in the world for Serena to slip her arm through Bernie’s and allow herself to be lead off to the staircase. When they reach the bottom of the steps it hits Serena that being escorted up the stairs on the Major’s arm is a significant upgrade on her previous daydream of being an aristocratic lady ascending elegantly to her chamber. She can’t quite put her finger on why she should think it’s an upgrade. It’s not as if she’s on the arm of a lord or a handsome rake. Did aristocratic women, in days gone by when ascending stairs was a ‘thing’, travel in packs? Was escorting their friends to bed a ‘thing’ for women, well, of any era? Was it, somehow, the historical equivalent of modern day young women visiting toilets en mass in clubs?

Serena doesn’t have long to ponder the issue as she’s distracted by the scent Bernie is wearing. They’re away from the fireplace now and the smell of burning logs isn’t overriding almost everything else at this distance. It’s also the closest Serena has been to Bernie since they met - there isn’t a lot of space between you when you’re arm in arm with someone. The closeness and lack of other overwhelming smells means that for the first time she’s caught a hint of the scent Bernie is giving off. Perhaps a hint isn’t the right word, the aroma is invading her nose and she can’t say that she minds. The smell isn’t strong. It’s not overwhelming or over bearing, it’s subtle and welcome. In fact it’s so subtle that Serena can’t quite work out if it’s Bernie’s natural scent or the faintest remnants of perfume applied much earlier lingering valiantly. Whichever it is Serena thinks the aroma is as comforting and enveloping as being wrapped up in a warm cosy blanket on a miserable and rainy day. It’s homely and it’s comforting. It’s quite a complex smell but Serena thinks she can just make out vanilla and a hint of something sweeter that might, or might not, be cherry. There’s also an undertone of something musky and heady which Serena can’t place but she knows that she likes. If this scent isn’t a perfume it really should be she thinks. It’s enticing enough to make someone a fortune if it could be bottled and sold. 

Bernie doesn’t say much on their way up the stairs which, as it happens, suits Serena quite well. She doesn’t really feel in the mood for small talk. Other than the delicious smell coming from Bernie which is sending her mind spinning off in all sorts of strange directions she’s also finding that there are other sensations causing her quite the distraction.

The arm that Bernie had offered Serena was slender and soft. Walking to the stairs, her arm wound through Bernie’s, had been no problem. Now though, as they climbed the stairs, her grip on Bernie’s arm had tightened. In response, Bernie had flexed her muscles to hold her arm steady. Whilst it had indeed kept them both upright it had also brought into sharp relief for Serena exactly how strong and toned those arm muscles were. She can’t be entirely sure, but she thinks there’s a lot more strength and power in those muscles than Bernie is demonstrating at the moment. She can sense a kind of tension in the muscles, like they’re coiled and ready to spring into action if they should stumble. It’s making Serena feel. Well she can’t quite put her finger on what she feels -safe? Supported? Something like that. It’s only a minor thought amidst the tsunami of thoughts and feelings currently flooding her head. Then there’s the warmth to consider as well. 

Bernie is giving off waves of the most delicious warmth. It’s soothing and comforting and it’s making Serena hyper aware of every point at which their bodies are touching. Not that Serena was exactly unaware of where her body was being touched. Being linked arm in arm, well it does necessitate rather a lot of body parts touching. It’s fine, Serena tells herself, she’s more than able to cope with that. It’s certainly no less than she’d expected when she’d taken Bernie’s arm in the lobby. Then again, as they’d walked up the staircase, taking each step together - taking each step in unison - the feeling that’s riding uppermost on the wave of sensations and surge of thoughts rolling through her brain is the fact that with every step they ascend Bernie’s hip is bumping against hers with the regularity of a rhythmic sway. She’d anticipated that they might bump or push up against each other, of course she had. What she hadn’t anticipated what the jolt of electricity she’d get every time their hips met, sending her just a little off balance every time. Serena starts to wonder if the single malt might have been just a little stronger than she’d realised – and not such a good idea on top of the wine. She’s becoming decidedly flushed and her brain is starting to feel, if not woozy, just a little fuzzy around the edges. She’s certainly not thinking entirely straight. On the other hand she knows that she’s not drunk. It takes a lot more than a few glasses of wine and a measure from the top shelf to get Serena Campbell anything more than mellow. Perhaps it’s the combination of the tiring journey and the long evening of forced company and tedious and restrained pleasantries that’s exhausted her and fried her brain around the edges? She certainly can’t come up with a more logical explanation right now. Her thoughts are interrupted by Bernie’s voice. 

“Serena?” she asks questioningly in a tone that suggests it isn’t the first time she’s tried to get her attention. Serena realises that she must have been lost in thought longer than she realised. Bernie must be wondering what kind of absent minded woman she’s got herself mixed up with. Quickly, and as charmingly as she can manage under the circumstances, she tries to cover up her embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” she apologises and throws in her most endearing smile for good measure.

“I was wondering where your room was?”

“It’s on the first floor. Turn left at the top of the stairs and it’s about halfway down the corridor.”

“Well that’s convenient. Mine’s somewhere in the middle of that corridor too.” Bernie announces. Serena isn’t sure why the thought of Bernie’s room being so close to her own should make her feel so strange or confused. It’s not like it makes a difference to anything, other than the extra convenience for Bernie of only having to escort her a couple of doors away from her own room. 

Serena doesn’t have long to ponder the whys and wherefores of what she’s feeling because they’re already at the top of the staircase, and, now Bernie knows which way they’re heading and they’re on the relative flat of the corridor, she sets of at a pace which could only be described as military. She’s still got her arm linked in Serena’s. In fact, if anything, they’re walking closer together than before. They’re almost thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. Serena is used to brisk walking. She covers an incredible distance on a daily basis at the hospital, with little option other than to be brisk. She likes to think that she has the walk of a competent, capable and powerful woman down to a tee. She’s by no means unfit, so she’s slightly concerned that she’s feeling every so slightly breathless. The pace at which they are covering the length of the corridor is the only possible cause – well it’s the only one she can think of.

It only takes a few seconds at the speed they’re going before Serena sees the door to her room come into view.

“That one’s mine.” she tells Bernie, causing her (and by extension Serena, still connected at the arm) to come to a rapid halt as she points at her room door which is now all but in front of them. 

“That’s rather handy.” Bernie comments, and Serena looks bemused. “My room’s right next door.” she explains.

“Well that’s a coincidence.” Serena says as Bernie lets her arm drop. Somehow it comes as a disappointment to Serena. There’s no reason why it should. Bernie’s delivered her safely to her room, there’s absolutely no need for their arms to be interlinked any more. Except. Except, it feels like a loss and Serena’s not sure why. She distracts herself by opening her handbag and rummaging for the room key. The corridor is, as she had feared, rather dimly lit. Each room though has a light sconce outside it, illuminating the room number. It sheds enough light to allow her to grope in her bag for her key and have a better than evens chance of actually seeing what she’s doing. Despite her best attempt to distract herself she can’t help noticing that Bernie is removing her key card from the back pocket of her sinfully tight black skinny jeans. To be honest Serena is rather surprised that anything can actually fit in those pockets, even something as thin as a key card. They’re so tight, and so fitted to the slopping, curved, roundness of Bernie’s backside. Where would be the space? Even given that her thoughts are running of on an unexpected tangent, contemplating how well Bernie’s jeans fit and wondering how exactly she gets into them, she finds Bernie’s next question rather strange.

“Do you snore?”

“Not that I’m aware. I’ve certainly never had any complaints.” Serena offers in a confused reply.

“Good to know. You know what these hotel rooms can be like. Paper thin walls most of the time. You can hear the person in the next room think. You’ll be pleased to learn that I don’t snore either – so with luck we won’t be keeping each other awake.”

“I’m sure the delegates who have to listen to me tomorrow we be very pleased that I’m likely to have a night undisturbed by snoring. Either mine or yours.” Serena notes, not really able to come up with something more appropriate. She does, however, come up with her key card from the darkest corners of her handbag and brandishes it triumphantly aloft with a jubilant “aha!”

“I had a lovely evening with you. Thank you.” Serena tells Bernie genuinely.

“We should do it again some time.” Bernie suggests “that is if you enjoyed it enough to want to repeat the experience.”

“Well, after I’ve led my workshop I should have a bit more time to myself. I’ll certainly be less preoccupied. I’d love to have a drink with you again. We’ve a lot more to talk about, after all. I mean, we never even got round to sharing horror stories about the Ex’s.” 

“I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want to hear about my Ex’s. But, if you’re allowed to sit with the great unwashed from now on then we could talk more over dinner tomorrow – if you’d like?”

“I think I’d like that very much.” Serena says with a smile, not noticing the slightly odd way Bernie dismissed her Ex’s.

“Then dinner tomorrow it is.” Bernie says with a smile of her own that makes Serena’s heart skip a beat. Not that Serena makes the connection, she just puts it down to a delayed reaction to a brisk pace down the corridor getting her flustered. 

“I…. I should...” Serena starts, brandishing her key card in a pointed and stylised manner at the bedroom door, almost as if she thought it could complete her sentence for her. 

“Of course.” Bernie concurs “Big day tomorrow after all.” but makes no effort to move as Serena swipes the card in the slot. The electronic peep of the card being accepted and the door lock releasing sounds overly loud in the silence that’s now descended between them.

“Well, I’ll just...” Serena tries again, indicating towards the door once more and awkwardly grasping the handle. Pushing the door open just a crack she faces Bernie and adds “I should….” Bernie takes pity on her.

“Good night Serena.” She says with a playful glint in her eye, and she leans forward to plant a kiss on Serena’s cheek. At least that’s what Serena had been expecting her to do, but the kiss lands on Serena’s lips.


End file.
